


gay.txt

by asbestos



Category: Lollipop Chainsaw
Genre: Homophobic Language, M/M, Necrophilia, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 15:56:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asbestos/pseuds/asbestos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>pwp, lewis/swan garbage literally only written cause i thought it'd be a fun paring ;y first time writing either of these guys so forgive me if they're a little ooc!</p>
            </blockquote>





	gay.txt

 Somewhere up there, high vaulted ceilings curved in dramatic arches, stone and plasterwork, but all he could see was the formless dark. Yellow beams of light reached out here and there from holes in the unfinished walls and roof, only to be choked by the dust, the dirt, the overwhelming silence of the cathedral. The stagnant air smelled of cold, hard stone. Stone, and...

It was always sharp when it hit his nostrils, the scent settled heavily somewhere in the back of his throat. That acrid, coppery smell, one that he had become so intimately familiar with in the passing days seem to lay thick in the air, only growing denser as he walked down the wide hallway. The hard soles of his heeled chelsea boots clacked against the polished marble, breaking the solemn silence with a steady _click – click – click._

He came to his destination, and for just one fleeting second, Swan felt his breath hitch in his throat. He had assured himself thousands of times over, practically in a mantra that he knew what he was doing, that he was in control, that it would all as he had planned and those fucking bastards would finally (he felt his tendons tighten, knuckles white) rot, rot, rot. Each breath hissed in and out of his nose, slowly, measured, as he gathered his composure. That was it. His breath, his pulse, and--

There was a wet snap, a pop from the other side of the heavy oak door. He should have been used to the sound by now, he really should have, but the muffled noise made his skin seem to constrict, cold and gooseflesh. Swan felt his brow crease and the cold of the metal doorhandle as, all at once, he pushed open the door and entered the secluded spare room.

Lewis stared up at him. He stared from his dull, yellow eyes, stared out from under his black eyelids. He stared not so much at Swan, but straight through him, as if his pinpoint pupils were unable to fully converge on any single point. At first glance, he could be mistaken for a living creature-- until the muscles in his neck strained with an inhuman intensity as he bit into the leg of the dead dog he hunched over, a weak reedy sound dragged out of the animal's now-splintered femur. Lewis ate, his large fingers digging into his dinner, jerking and twitching, heaving with uneven breath. His legs were sprawled out in front of him, seated on the hard ground as he was, seemingly oblivious to the ornately carved chair next to him. Other than the antique and the black guitar leaned against the wall, the room was empty-- a perfect holding cell for Swan's favorite underling.

“The fuck are you looking at?” The words were gravelly, deep, punctuated by a watery gurgle. Lewis threw what was left of the dog's remains into the corner of the room, muscles in his back crawling and wracking before he twisted his head to stare up at Swan. He rose to his feet slowly-- it was clear that he was still somewhat uneasy on his legs. Though he was slowly regaining his faculties, Lewis retained the hunching, animalistic posture until he remembered to straighten his back up. And when he did, he stood tall-- nearly a foot taller than Swan, head to toes.

Swan could smell it all on him. The sweet scent of rotting blood, starting to turn brown at the corners of his lips. The fresh viscera, scraped open across his blocky cheekbones. Cigarettes. Brylcreem. Leather and gunpowder and motor oil-- just how long had Lewis been dead before he raised him? Not long, he knew, the guitarist looked fresh and clean compared to his peers, Zed with his advanced decomposition and exposed teeth, Mariska with her sloughing skin held together by thick-weave stitching. No, Lewis was fresh, a rare find. What had it been? A motorcycle accident?

“What, I can't check up on my _favorite_ Dark Purveyor?” He spoke easily, in a teasing, lilting tone, keeping a careful eye on the other man as he settled into the mahogany chair.

“You _could_ be doin' something useful, instead of waiting around. When the hell are we going to get on with this whole ritual? Or are you just gonna keep me waitin' here forever?”

“Oh, suck my _dick,_ Lewis. You'll--”

A strange smile curled the corner of his mouth. “You'd like that, wouldn't you, queer.”

Before Swan had a chance to answer, Lewis was already stalking towards him. There was a curious dedication in his eye, a certain methodological loyalty. Did he think this was some type of joke? Did he think he was being _funny?_

Expressionless, Lewis sunk back into some semi-conscious state, his hands moving curiously out of time with the rest of his body, off by just half a measure, half a beat. He groped at Swan's high-waisted pants as if he were blind, numbly feeling the pinstriped fabric under the filth that clung to his white fingertips. The sudden feeling of his gore-slicked, clammy fingers brushing over the sensitive skin of Swan's stomach made him jump, one leg reflexively rising off the ground as if prepared to knee Lewis straight in the jaw. But he didn't-- he froze, Lewis froze, and they both relaxed and took a rattling breath in simultaneously: Swan in thrill and fear, Lewis in basic necessity.

White teeth, marred with viscera and coagulating blood, stood in stark contrast to his black gums. A chill of anxiety traced up the arching length of Swan's spine to see those teeth so _close_ to him, teeth which had no problem rending human flesh and scraping deep gouges into the surface of bone. To see such a monster, such a disgusting fucking creature kneeled in front if him, bound to _his_ commands, made the heat pooled deep in his stomach grow hotter. If only he wanted to, if only he had the will to, Lewis could snap his teeth and bite his dick right off.

Eyes half-lidded but seeing little, his head swam, painted fingernails digging into Lewis's muscular shoulders. In months past when he had no one to partake in such activities with, he pleasured himself to thoughts of Juliette and her nubile, tight body-- but now the image did nothing for him. Waxy, black lipstick stained his teeth as Swan bit down on his own lip, hot breath escaping in low gasps. He had never been with another man, though he could hardly consider Lewis a _man_ at this point-- a thought that made the corners of his lips twist up. It was fucking disgusting, fucking vile. The inside of Lewis's mouth was slimy and cold, as repulsive as the fish he had gutted in home-ec class. A rough tongue moved across the sensitive skin underneath the head of his cock, the vulgar action alone almost enough to push him over the edge. But he gritted his teeth and gripped Lewis's shoulders, both trembling hands trying desperately to jerk the zombie closer. Lewis moved at his own maddeningly slow pace, unconcerned by the frantic scrabbling on his back. Whatever wounds Swan's nails scratched open instantly scabbed over and vanished in a thick stream of black ichor. Did it hurt him at all? Could he even feel it?

And suddenly, he stopped. “ _Lewis,_ I didn't tell you to--!”

His presence carried with it an incredible weight, something intimidating and powerful. At their narrow proximity, Swan felt as if he was drowning in the choking smell of gasoline and rot. A leaden heat came over him, fear and thrill and arousal, nearly paralyzed by the icy feeling of Lewis's large hands pinning him to the wall. It was too late to back out-- not that he wanted to, of course, he reassured himself. Metal clinked against metal as Lewis took one clawed hand to his beltbuckle, letting it fall loose from his tight-fitted motorcycle leathers. He drew his cock out: it was thick and white, flushed with black blood, but otherwise relatively intact. Grinding against Swan's own, comparatively diminutive length, Lewis hunched over the young necromancer and growled something foul, some profanity-littered dirty talk that barely reached the dizzied Swan. He scrabbled uselessly at Lewis's leather jacket, feeling filth and grime collect under his nails. Breath labored, pulse pounding, so very _alive_ under the Lewis's inhuman cold, Swan clenched his teeth and hissed a strained “ _fuck_ ” _._ Insistent and sharp, Lewis tightened his grip, and just like that it was over. As one final action of insubordination, he bit down on a shred of Swan's neck visible just above his cravat, hard enough to draw blood and a startled cry from the man under him. After the dog, he wasn't hungry, but he couldn't have Swan thinking too highly of himself.

“Fuckin' nerd.” He shoved Swan away from him, rebuckling his belt in one smooth motion.

“Just because I'm your master--” Hunching his shoulders, he made a weak attempt at wiping the mess off of his pants, “--Doesn't mean you have to take everything I say literally, you idiot!”

All he got in return was a disinterested grunt. Lewis had already turned his back to him, idly inspecting his guitar and running a pocket comb through his pompadour. Though Swan stared at him, stuck in a state of slightly confused shock, Lewis had already put the whole event out of his mind. He liked to get things done, and he liked to get them done efficiently.

“Well-- don't forget, we have _plans_ tomorrow.” Tuck in the shirt, straighten the suit jacket, brush a clump of teased hair out of his face. “You know, the whole _genocide_ thing?”

A low groan. “Are you done talkin' yet?”

Frowning deeply, an expression that only emphasized by his now-smeared black lipstick, Swan placed his gloved hand upon the brass door handle. “You better watch your mouth, idiot.” The door slammed behind him.

Distantly, he wondered if Zed was still at the junkyard. 


End file.
